


Just because it's happy doesn't make it wrong

by Multifandom_damnation



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Dialogue Heavy, Drunk Dancing, Excessive Drinking, Families of Choice, Gen, Partying, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Sad Bill Denbrough, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Writer Bill Denbrough, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26373088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multifandom_damnation/pseuds/Multifandom_damnation
Summary: The Losers lives have always been sad and distressing, but now, middle-aged and bone-tired, forever mourning friends that had died on the way, they focus their energy on the monumental task of moving forward and healing from inside out. Bill knows this all too well and knows that while their stories have always been sad, sometimes good stories can be happy as well.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough & The Losers Club
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	Just because it's happy doesn't make it wrong

**Author's Note:**

> So I've come to the conclusion that the IT fandom isn't dead but they're not very active. Like, Tumblr has the same few things all over again while the new stuff is nearly being touched. On here, people are making fics all the time, and unless they're a chaptered fic, it barely gets looked at. So creators are still actively making stuff, but nobody bothers to look at it anymore haha. That's just what it looks like, anyway.
> 
> This one sort of got away from me a little bit. It's so much longer than it was supposed to be, but I guess that's a good thing?? It's just a silly little feel-good fic about healthy morning, renewal and friendship. I hope you enjoy!!

It had taken all of them to convince Bill to join them on their night out, and he had fought like hell to get out of it. "I have things to do," he protested. "I'm very busy. I don't have time to go out. I'm not a teenager anymore, I'm nearly forty."

But he couldn't say no to Ben's pleading eyes and Bev begging him with her hand on his arm and begrudgingly allowed Richie to drag him from the hotel they were staying at to the rental car, and he in the front seat as Ben drove, the others squished in the back seat and complaining about it the whole time. And really, he was right in a way. They really were too old to go out and party at a bar with drunk and horny teenagers, but it was the night before Richie's big comedy show, and he had begged them all for one last night out on the town before he had to get all professional.

The party was loud and nigh-obnoxious, with bright colourful lights and loud pounding music, with a bunch of scantily dressed teens on the dancefloor. In a darkened corner, burly men held their beers and watched the party with disdain. Bill began groaning the second they entered the bar when the scent of sweaty bodies and rich alcohol and cigarette smoke slapped him in the face. "Well," he had to shout over the music. "I don't know what I expected. Is this what you guys do for f-fun?"

"Lighten up, Big Bill," Ben clapped him on the shoulder. "It'll be a good night. Try to have some fun."

"And stop complaining," Richie yelled into his ear. Bill winced and tried to pull away. "You've been doing it all night. You're going to bring the mood down, and nobody needs a Debby Downer."

"The faster I get d-drunk, the faster I'll stop complaining," Bill replied, and the group laughed knowing as they shoved him towards the crowded bar, and he stumbled off through the busy dancers to eventually arrive at the dimly lit bar.

The night started off slowly at first. They got a table in the corner, not too far away from the dazzling lights but a darkened spot all on their own, and a lovely middle-aged barmaid arrived with a tired yet kind smile and took their order. Eventually, when they were a few drinks in, the song changed to something older and familiar, and the younger dancers left the designated dance-floor to return to their seats, giving their tired feet a rest. Ben had sent Beverly a cheeky grin and, despite her light-hearted protests, he whisked her away onto the dancefloor to rock under the dazzling lights, arm in arm, spinning together in the clasp of each other's arms. 

Now the only two remaining at the table, Richie leaned over to Mike as they watched them weave between the other dancers. "Dorks," he shouted over the din. "Our friends are total dorks."

"Leave them be," Mike laughed. "They're in love. Let them live a little."

"Love birds," Richie agreed before he leaned closer to make kissy-faces at Mike and bat his eyebrows at him. "How about you, Mikey? Will you dance with me? Show me what love is?"

"In your dreams, Trashmouth," Mike laughed, placing a hand on Richie's face and pushing him away. Richie went with the force of his push, laughing as he did so, curling his fist a little tighter against his glass.

At some point, Richie got up and joined the others for a dance, and after a lot of tugging and complaining and a little bit of demanding on Beverly's part, they managed to get Mike up for a couple of songs before he collapsed back at their table, tired and sore and laughing so hard his belly hurt. Nobody noticed that Bill hadn't returned from the bar, but that was normal, by now. Sometimes, Bill enjoyed his privacy, and as a writer, found comfort in his solitude, in being unseen in a room full of people. And it was no secret that he enjoyed his drink either. 

Eventually, as the night began to wind down, the exhausted dancers collapsed back in their seats with an exhausted huff, red-faced and flushed, laughing with the very last of the air in their lungs, looking lovingly at their friends. "I haven't danced like that in a long time," Ben managed before he frowned "Actually, I don't think I've _ever_ danced like that."

"Where's Bill?" Bev asked as she ran her hand up and down Ben's arm with a smile, glancing around the table though she knew he wasn't there.

"He never came back from the bar," Richie explained. "I'm sure he's just found some lovely woman to take home."

"You better go and find him. It's almost closing time," Mike said as he stood from his seat and snatched the car keys up off of the table. "I'll bring the car around."

For some reason, they thought it was a good idea to split up and cover me ground to search for Bill in the admittedly small bar, each going their separate ways as they called for Bill over the pounding thrum of the music, squinting through the crowd and the bright lights for someone who looked like they obviously didn't want to be there. It was Ben who found him, sitting alone at a little table in a dark corner, a couple of empty glasses in front of him with condensation rings forming under his wet glass. He looked deep in thought, staring off in the direction of the dancefloor with his nose wrinkled up a little and his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth. He had a pen in his hand and a napkin with dark scribbles. 

"Bill," Ben had to be shout be heard, and he placed a hand on Bill's shoulder, making him jump. Ben had to smile. Even after all these years, his friend was still very much the same. "We're going now. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm f-fine," Bill said as he hastily folded the napkin up and shoved it deep in his pocket before Ben could comment on it. He made to pull his sleeves down too, and Ben noticed that the skin on the back of his hands and his wrists and his forearms were also scrawled on with dark ink. "Party's over?"

"I'd say so," Ben laughed as he helped heave Bill up off the chair. He wobbled in Ben's grasp, stumbling a little in place, and as Ben wrapped both hands around him to stop him from swaying so much, he found it no surprise that Bill had overindulged a little and had a bit too much to drink. Or maybe a lot too much to drink. He tended to do that a lot as an adult. Drink too much. "Why didn't you come and sit with us tonight, Big Bill? You could have danced with us. Even Mike got up to dance. It would have been fun. But I didn't see you at all tonight."

"I didn't want to bring the mood down. I wanted you to h-have a good time." Bill responded as they weaved through the individuals who just didn't want to let go of the praying spirit, even at closing time. They would dance until the music stopped and the bouncers kicked them out. "You guys deserve a good time. I didn't want to ruin that."

Frowning, Ben tightened his grip around Bill's waist. Not because it was really necessary, but because Bill sounded like he needed a hug, and this was the best Ben could provide for the moment. "That's not true, Bill. You're our best friend. We love you. We'd never think you were bringing the mood down or running our good time just because you didn't want to come out and party with a bunch of drunk teenagers."

There was a pause before Bill sighed and said, voice tight and strained, "I got another b-book declined today," and Ben nearly did a double-take. He hadn't expected that reason. He expected Bill to admit why he was in a bad mood even less. "They said that it was too sad, too depressing. That there was no closure at the ending, and nobody would want to make it into a film. As if everything these days has to be made into a f-film adaption." Bill sounded bitter.

"Jeez Bill, I'm sorry," Ben managed. He knew what it was like to have a design rejected, but it was admittedly a rare occurrence that he could count on one hand. But it had hurt like hell regardless. "Does this happen often?"

"More than I would like to admit," Bill said, and then he was straightening up, pulling away from Ben and shoving his hands in his pockets as they emerged outside into the chilly night air, met by the sound of honking horns and wailing sirens in the distance, taxis and cars struggling for a park, drunk partygoers wobbling on their high-heels or shirtless and covered in sticky booze, and Richie and Bev waiting for them at the front door, leaning against the wall as they shared a cigarette between them. Bill put on a smile, believable looking that Ben almost couldn't tell it was fake. He wondered how often Bill had to pretend if it looked like a natural expression now. "Hi," he greeted when they got closer.

"There you are," Beverly laughed as she pulled Bill into a tight hug and handed the cigarette to Richie. 

"I found him," Ben said as they pulled away.

Richie took a drag from the cigarette before he handed it back to Beverly, who was waiting with her hand outstretched expectantly. "Took you long enough," he said, but there was light humour to it, too. "Mike's just getting the car so we can get the hell out of dodge. Though Ben parked somewhere between Whoop Whoop and Shit's Creek, so there's a chance that he'll get lost and we'll be waiting for days for him to get back."

When Mike finally, eventually managed to get the car near the front of the bar, he rolled down his window and waved the others over and they darted into the street to jump into the car so he didn't have to struggle for a park. They shut the car doors, breathless and laughing, as cars honked at them from behind and Mike drove away back to the hotel.

Very soon, almost immediately, Bill fell asleep against the car door, curled up with his arms wrapped around himself as if afraid he might shatter in his sleep, his face pressed against the cool window, looking more peaceful than they had ever seen him, though his brow was still furred like he was caught in a moment of permanent contemplation. Beverly reached around Richie in the back seat to push Bill's slightly-greying hair away from his eyes and gently rub the back of her hand down his cheek. Bill leaned into the touch, even in sleep, until Bev pulled away and he returned his head to the window.

"He told me what was wrong tonight," Ben said in the front seat as Mike carefully steered them home. "Said he didn't want to sit with us because he didn't want to ruin our fun. Another of his novels god rejected. Apparently they're too depressing and the endings don't have closure."

There was silence other than the quiet thrum of the engine and the whistling of wind outside as they passed parked cars and structures. "Real life doesn't have closure," Beverly said from the back seat, sounding surprisingly bitter. "There's no such thing as happy endings. If only they knew what the real world was like, then they wouldn't be saying such a stupid thing."

"Hey," Richie said, sounding curious and surprised. "What's this?"

He held up a napkin folded into quarters where they could all see it, and Ben turned around in his chair so he could peer at the item in Richie's hands. He held it tentatively, almost like he thought it would blow up in his face if he man-handled it. "I don't know. Bill was writing on it when I found him in the bar. He's got stuff all over his arms too."

"Maybe they're notes for his new book?" Mike suggested, glancing at them in the rear-view mirror.

Beverly nudged Richie. "Read it."

"No!" Richie shouted too loud, and when Bill stirred with a grumble before falling back to sleep, the others hushed him sharply. "No!" he repeated, quiet now. "This is his _shit_! I'm not just going to read his shit like that without his permission. That's just not something you _do_ , read someone else's draft before it's even finished."

"Just read it Rich, or I will," Beverly sighed.

Reluctantly, and still muttering under his breath, Richie tenderly unwrapped the folded page of napkin, careful not to smudge Bill's near-illegible handwriting, and began to read in a slow and steady tone. 

_"Maybe this story doesn't have to be sad. Maybe it doesn't end with broken hearts and ruined lives and best friends moving away and forgetting. Maybe it won't start with a shattered family or a missing child or a waking monster emerging from the woods. A dingy bar in the middle of nowhere, perhaps, and a wooden table sticky with years worth of spilled alcohol, a dancefloor filled with sweaty bodies and drunk teens. A woman with her head thrown back, red hair flowing like the sweeping crackle of roaring flames as she laughs for the first time in years and dances for the first time in her life, finally knowing what it means o be free. A man who holds her tenderly as he sweeps her across the dancefloor, the gentlest touch she has ever experienced, his eyes hold a kindness that you will never understand and a secret sadness that you will never get to see as he smiles and he holds and he loves with all he is worth for the fear of losing it all is too great to ignore. A friend, a funny man who's broken like a mirror inside, a facade of the jester put up like an immovable shield to halt the sharp gaze of onlookers seeing just how truly broken he is, as he dances like a fool and does everything he can to make his friends laugh, even as he resists the urge to fall to his knees and scream until his throat aches. Seated at the table is the final friend, watching from the sidelines as the people he loves twirl together in a tangled un-coordinated mess, but there is something about the deafening silence that gnaws at him, the situation of being left behind again too hard to ignore, and there is still a deep loneliness that rests in his bones but which dissipates almost immediately as he is manhandled from his seat and swept up onto the dancefloor to twirl and spin and laugh with the rest of our heroes. And beside them, the empty spaces for the friends lost and left behind, as if their ghosts could join them on the wooden dance floor, sticky under their feet and vibrating with the force of their joy, and will them back into existence._

_Maybe this story can be about sad people who are broken inside trying to be happy despite the sadness. Maybe this story can be about living and not about dying. Maybe this story can end like a fairytale. Maybe-"_

He broke off abruptly, holding the napkin tightly in his hands. "That's it," he announced. "That's all it says."

The car was plunged in silence. Ben was the first to break it with an almost humourless laugh. "Bill always did say that he does his best writing drunk."

"That doesn't sound like the way Bill writes at all," Richie frowned as he read it over again. 

Again, Mike looked at him in the rear-view mirror, raising his eyebrows in thinly veiled surprise. "You know how Bill writes?"

"I mean," Richie protested, almost desperately, like he didn't want to be caught. There was a flush rising across his cheeks. "When you remember that your childhood best friend is now a famous author, you kinda have to read all their material to see if the rumours are true."

"What about the rest of us?" Ben teased. "What do you think about my buildings?"

"Buildings are a lot harder to understand than stupid books," Richie said.

"And what about my clothes?" Bev smiled in the darkness, her teeth looking too white.

"I'm a _comedian_ , Beverly," Richie scoffed. "I don't earn nearly enough to afford the clothes you make. I admire them from afar on your website and fantasise about how good I would look in them, on stage under the spotlights or just walking down the street, but I had the common-sense and the self-preservation not to buy anything. Who do you take me for?"

All Mike could do was laugh. "Don't look at me. I'm just a librarian," he said. "Fold the note back up and put it back where you found it, Rich. Better that he doesn't know that we found it."

"I still don't think we should have read it. You never read someone's content before it's finished. The guy who writes my material says that all the time," Richie said as he carefully folded up the napkin and put it back in Bill's pocket where he found it.

"Maybe you could ask Bill to write you some material?" Bev suggested. "Or at least teach you how to write some original stuff for yourself."

"Bill?" Richie snorted. "Have you _read_ his shit? He's about as funny as a baby's funeral. It's all dark and depressing and way too real. The publishers and directors are right about the stuff they say. What they don't know is that Bill's not making any of it up. I wouldn't have him write my jokes if you paid me."

There was a sudden gasping sound from the backseat as Bill woke with a start, a frown already forming on his lips and the peaceful, younger look of his face morphing immediately to that of his usual tired, disgruntled, grumpy expression. "Someone say my name?" he asked, voice thick from sleep and alcohol.

"We were just voting on who had to carry you inside," Mike lied easily. "We're here."

Bill made a face that was so childlike and petulant that his friends had to look away to stop their laughter. "I'm not a baby. I can w-walk."

"Are you sure?" Richie waggled his eyebrows at him and Bill swatted him away when he got too close, biting his lips to try not to laugh. "You didn't look like it when Benny-boy was practically carrying you out of the club and you could hardly stand on your own two feet while we were waiting for Mike to bring the car around. I was sure that one of us would have to carry into the hotel bridal style," 

Rolling his eyes, Bill tried to get as far away from Richie as he could while being stopped by the car door, as Mike turned into the car park of the hotel. "I survived for 27 years without you treating me like a b-baby, I think I can survive a little bit longer."

"Alright, enough you two," Mike twisted around to reverse the car into a park and used the time to glare good-naturedly at his friends. "Don't make me turn this car around."

Eventually, they parked the car and exited promptly, with minimal amounts of squabbling, and entered the hotel in a composed and timely manner. They rode the elevator up to their hotel room silently, but the moment Ben pushed the keycard into the slot to unlock the door, they erupted in their common, familiar commotion, Richie making crass jokes and Mike laughing at him and Bev shouting her better jokes back at him and Ben jokingly trying to pull them apart before things got physical and Bill rolling his eyes at them from the sidelines. 

They had all intended to get their own rooms, but Ben had been part of constructing the building and the current owner was one of Beverly's clients and their children were fans of Richie's shows, and they had given them a room in the hotel that was more like an apartment, with no additional fee, and they had gladly and graciously accepted. Even Mike, who was a little out of his depth with the whole thing. None of them had read Bill's books.

Richie was the first to collapse in a heap on the couch. "So, what now, Losers?" he asked. "Nightcap?"

"Not for m-me," Bill shook his head as Mike busied himself with making coffee and Beverly fell into the circle of Ben's arms on the couch. He dug the folded napkin out from his pocket, still exactly where he left it, and placed it lightly on the counter under his coffee cup, somewhere that only he could find it. "I've got a lot of work to do in the morning, so I have to get to sleep early."

"What's that Bill?" Mike asked innocently as he watched Bill hide the napkin under his mug. _Hide_ was the wrong word. Ensure it was in a safe place he would certainly remember in the morning. 

"Just some notes for my new novel," Bill waved it off. "I've got to type it up tomorrow and send a copy to the publicists. Anyway, g-goodnight all."

His exit was met by a chorus of murmured goodnights and goodbyes, and it was only when his bedroom door shut behind him and the sound of his shoes being kicked against the wall that Mike moved from where the kettle was slowly boiling and took the pen-scribbled napkin out from under the coffee mug. He glanced over it a little, reading the familiar words with the eye of an expert, and gently smoothed his hand over it. "Why he's put it under his coffee cup and not near his laptop is beyond me," he said. "Someone should type this up for him."

Ben pulled his head away from where it was buried in Bev's hair. "I can do it tomorrow. No matter how early Bill says he's going to wake up, we know that we'll all wake up before he does."

Wrapping Ben's arm tighter around her, Beverly laughed and said, "Some of us actually work with schedules and deadlines."

Yawning, Richie tipped his head over the back of the couch. "And I've got a show to prepare for. Holy shit. I'd forgotten all about that."

Mike couldn't help but smile as he gently pinched the corners of the napkin and used the pads of his fingers to flatten out the crinkled corners of the note, smoothing it out and making it look anew again. "You guys should get some rest then. I don't think I'll be too far behind, but I'll tidy up."

As the others made their way to bed, saying goodnight to each other and to Mike in their own unique and separate ways, Mike remained standing at the kitchen bench, his steaming coffee slowly cooling beside him, reading, again and again, the wondrous beginning of Bill's newest book, so joyful and beautiful and hopeful compared to any of the other things Mike has ever read from Bill, and couldn't help wondering if this was the start of a brand new beginning for all of them.

Because if Bill Denbrough led them somewhere, the Losers would always follow suit.


End file.
